Wayfarer (Passenger 2)

When it was over, Etta reluctantly lowered the violin, and let the world back in.

The tsar clapped, rising to his feet. “Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful, the two of you. Perhaps we won’t discuss business after, but will simply play—”

There was a faint knock at the door, and the same servant that had escorted them in stepped back inside at the tsar’s command to enter.

“Ah, of course. Every dream ends. That will be dinner, then,” he said, retrieving the violin from Etta.

AS THEY WALKED TO DINNER, TRAILING THE TSAR, Henry whispered, “You’ve got an odd look on your face. Is something the matter?”

“No, I just…” Etta lifted her gaze off the plush carpet and looked at the man ahead of them. “It surprised me—that he’s just a normal person. That he’s a real person, I mean, not just words on paper or a photograph. And nice.”

Even with the infinite possibilities of time travel, Etta hadn’t truly considered that she might meet someone famous or noteworthy. She and Nicholas had kept to themselves, avoiding the people around them as much as possible, and she’d assumed it was the same with other travelers, too. All her life, she’d thought of these historical figures as still lifes, to be studied through a layer of distance and glass like precious objects in a museum.

Henry snorted. “He’s real, all right. And as fallible as any of us uncrowned mortals. He is rather nice to his friends, but of course, there have been many versions of his life that have seen him oppressive, cruel to those of other beliefs, foolish, and even blind to the needs of his most vulnerable subjects. You could say it was because he came to power too soon, before he was ready; because he picked poor advisors; or that it was a collision of unfortunate events. But I’ve seen it, time and time again: he cannot stop the march of a future that no longer has a place for him and his family.”

“He’s killed in this original timeline, too?” Etta whispered.

Henry rubbed a gloved hand over his forehead, considering his answer. “His death…it’s inevitable. The events leading up to it grew worse and worse with Ironwood’s interferences and alterations, but it has happened, and it will happen; only this time, it must play out the way it was intended a year from now.”

He took a deep breath. “You remember what I told you before, that we must accept it, we must be ready to sacrifice what we have in order to see to the well-being of the whole? When I was younger, I came up with so many scenarios, so many different plans of how to save him, this one life, and still keep the timeline intact. But the pattern is undeniable. He is taken again and again; we are separated again and again. That is why I believe that certain things are destined; I can see the patterns, and cannot deny the repetition and the greater purpose they are trying to serve. At least in this timeline, I can be content in knowing the rest of his family will only go into exile.”

A tremor of sadness in the words, but also resignation. “Etta…I wish I could spare you this, but it is inevitable that you, too, will be asked to relinquish something. You will see the pattern, too.”

Etta tightened her grip on his arm, giving him a reassuring squeeze. In truth, she didn’t know how to comfort him, or what to say, but she was grateful beyond words that he could see his friend again, even if it was for the last time. She would have shattered every rule the travelers had ever imposed if it meant being able to throw herself into Nicholas’s arms and feel his steady heartbeat murmuring beneath her cheek.

As much as he presented himself to the world with a grin and an infectious laugh, every now and then Etta caught a glimpse of the part of himself that Henry tried to hide. It complicated her perception of him, made her want to study him that much more closely. She’d had a hard time seeing how her mother, who was so cold and sharp at times that she could cut without a single word, had ever found herself entangled with someone who acted as though laughing and smiling were as necessary to him as oxygen. But now Etta had seen the embattled parts of him; she’d witnessed that irresistible quality he had that made him a friend of tsars and Thorns alike.

“Henrietta…Etta,” he corrected himself. Her heart gave a twist at his gentle tone. “You play exceptionally well. My compliments to Alice. I don’t think she’d mind my saying that you surpass even her skill.”

He’d heard Alice play at some point. She smiled sadly. It helped, somehow, to know that someone else remembered the way Alice had made her violin sing.

“Thank you,” Etta said. “How long have you played the piano?”

“Nearly my whole life,” Henry said. “From before I was tall enough to reach the pedals.”

Etta nodded, her fingers pressing against his sleeve. “It must be hard to find time to play. What with all the traveling. Hiding. Scheming.”

“Not as hard as you might think,” he said. “I make time. It’s true that altering timelines or events is a kind of creation, but there are always consequences, good or bad. Music is something I can create that is neither. It simply is the meeting of the composer’s mind with my heart. Oh, dear—” He laughed. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. It’s rather maudlin, even for me.”

Etta smiled. It had made perfect sense to her.

“Why do you play?” he asked her. “Not just play—why would you want to make it your life?”

Etta had been asked this question so many times over the years—by Alice, by reporters, by other performers—and had asked it of herself even more often. Every answer had been a reprise of the same practiced refrain. And yet here, with Henry, she felt safe enough to admit the other truths, the ones she had pushed so far back in her heart they’d begun to rust. The ones she hadn’t even shared with Nicholas.